


his arrows looks of weeping eyes

by theviolonist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This little babe, so few days old / Is come to rifle Satan's fold</i>
</p><p>Or, in which Hannibal is the one who feeds Abigail human flesh throughout her childhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	his arrows looks of weeping eyes

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Benjamin Britten's _This Little Babe_ , the listening of which I recommend [this version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_Tux6tixN0) for.
> 
> The poem in (13) is Pablo Neruda's [XXXIV (Usted es la hija del mar)](http://bryantmcgill.com/wiki/poetry/pablo_neruda/xxxiv_you_are_the_daughter_of_the_sea).

(-2)

Hannibal meets Camille de la Salpêtrière in April. He's been sitting with her father, Arthur de la Salpêtrière, for about two hours now, playing chess as they talk about maps. Arthur has in his possession old London maps that they have been corresponding about for months now, and which Hannibal has crossed the channel for. 

Camille breezes into the living-room just as dinner is announced. Hannibal's eyes slide over her - a pale, aristocratic girl, with the swan neck and thin wrists, dressed casually in a skirt and a cardigan of soft grey wool. "Miss," he says, bowing slightly. 

Camille is looking at him when he unfolds, her lip slightly curled. "Mister..."

"Lecter. Doctor," he answers. 

She doesn't look convinced. They shake hands and sit for dinner, during which Camille sneaks glances at him, her eyes sharp and her mouth red. Her hair is falling slightly out of her braid, and Hannibal, who always strives for perfection, itches to undo it and let her hair roll on her shoulders.

But - " _Bon apétit_ ," he says cordially, and sets to eating under her watchful gaze. 

-

Camille, as it turns out, is neither as ingénue nor as prudish as she appears. After her initial distrustfulness, she takes to him quickly, and reveals herself more interesting than Hannibal had foreseen, with a sharp mind and a ready wit. She's just completed a degree in Criminology, and counts Diane Arbus and Yayoi Kusama among her favorite artists. Hannibal asks, in perfect French, that she show him the city. She seems half charmed, half hesitant. 

But she agrees, the day goes well and it's not a week later that he sleeps in her bed, the expensive cotton deliciously soft under his body. She holds herself above him, her hands resting on his chest. "You're quite strange, Mr Jekyll."

He smiles; raises a hand to her cheek and draws her down, threading his fingers through her hair. He won't love her, but she'll be a charming past-time, and she's smart enough that she won't mind being used and will probably use him in return.

"Yes," he says against her red, young mouth. "I really am."

 

(-1)

Camille suggests, in a tone that he would take as an insult to his intelligence from anyone else but surprisingly, doesn't mind from her, that they get married. Hannibal knows that she wants to get out of her cocoon of outdated aristocracy, hates her father's cartography purely on principle and can't bear the musty rooms of her mansion. They moved in together in the city a few months ago, because she is an even better companion than Hannibal had anticipated, because he likes Paris and can't seem to decide himself to leave her behind. He revels in the infatuation, the thrill of which quite resembles that of killing. 

As much as he searches, he can't seem to find any reason not to marry her. It will be an experiment of the highest caliber, living incognito in such an intricate, inquisitive city, with a woman as beautiful as Camille. So he neglects to ask her father for permission, knowing she will find it insulting, wouldn't like to be handed over like a doll; doesn't ponder over the fact that he knows her so well and kneels at her feet after an evening at the opera, drawing from his pocket the little velvet pouch. 

She looks down at him, not blushing at all, not even smiling. Her brows furrow for a second as she searches into his face, the world is silent - for the first time he sees her beneath the paint and realizes what a formidable woman she is, if not as cruel and monstrous as him - and he feels his heart stir, the slightest movement, terrifying. 

"Get up," she says. He takes her gloved, ring-adorned hand and raises it to the skies of la Bastille, as though she were a gladiator who had finally won her freedom. 

 

(0)

His first reaction was irritation, that such a pedestrian thing as an accidental pregnancy would happen to him, to them, who were so sharp and careful and meticulous, even in their lovemaking. But Camille wanted a child, in a selfish way that was all he adored in her, and rested on him her dark, green eyes, said, "I want this child." And so it was: he watched as pregnancy swelled her, only slightly, as though Nature were doing its best not to offend her figure; played Sadie and Gould to her belly, Camille's fingers mimicking playing over the distended skin; obliged her few cravings and fed her young, vigorous flesh that she ate readily. 

Now here he is - and as he walks into the hospital, unduly calm, he thinks for the first time that he is having a child. How queer. How entirely unexpected. 

Camille bares her teeth when he penetrates the room, clad in sickly green. Hannibal is surprised to find that he likes the unruly fury on her, the flushed face and clenched teeth, even with her thighs open in such an unfashionable manner. 

Eventually the child is born. Hannibal looks at the small, animal-like form, wrinkled and angrily red and, after a beat, feels a sharp thrill of satisfaction which he supposes is only human. There will be an heir, then. Yes, he decides, he likes the idea: him and Camille and this child will be a new, improved trinity, wicked and dark, Flemish-like with their black hair and fair skin, ensconced in rich patterned fabrics. 

"Her name is Abigail," says Camille when she presents him with the child later that evening, her eyes tired but shining. 

Hannibal smiles at her, reaches a hand to brush a lock of hair out of her forehead. "Thank you, darling," he says, and takes the child in his arms. 

 

(4)

Camille's death is pitifully unremarkable. A burglar breaks into their Costwolds house and stabs her to death - Hannibal recognizes the work of an amateur, twelve strikes, three to the throat, eight to the chest and one to the flank. She must have been alive for so long, gasping with blood, and now she doesn't even look beautiful in death, which Hannibal figures is the least a killer can offer his victims, the satisfaction of a well-staged murder. 

He takes Abigail with him to see the body, ignoring the morgue attendant's somber gaze. She cries silently, her dark eyes circled with red. Her " _Maman..._ " is a soft broken whine.

" _Dis au revoir, Abigail_ ," he prompts gently. 

Abigail looks up at him, looking entirely too old for a child; and for a second she has the same face as her mother the day she and Hannibal met, suspicious, her lips pursed and her brows furrowed, a striking and youthful beauty. But then she blinks and in a flash she's a child again, except maybe quieter, more in control. 

" _Adieu_ ," Abigail whispers, touching her fingers to her mother's lips. Hannibal glares at the morgue attendant when he starts forward, outraged.

The funeral takes place two weeks later. Hannibal dresses Abigail in black lace; she lets him polish her little shoes, kneeling at her feet, his head bent over her knee, even twines her fingers almost tenderly in his hair. He holds her hand all through the funeral, the droning Latin that reverberates in the big church. But she doesn't look afraid, merely watchful - when the time comes she stands over the casket and says a few words too quiet for Hannibal to hear. He realizes dimly that this particular death, even though he doesn't exactly resent it, inconveniences him slightly. He secures his hold on Abigail's hand and for the next few hours father and daughter stand on the stone stairs outside the church, a recipient for the grievers' condolences. 

Within the following week, Hannibal tortures and kills Camille's murderer, serves him to dinner with rice and _fromage à pâte persillée_ , which Abigail duly appreciates; after which they pack their bags and move to America in the night, only leaving a polite note to the cartographer. 

 

(6)

America is ripe with people who amply deserve a knife to the throat and Abigail is a precocious child. According to the teacher of the private school Hannibal's gotten her into, she mostly keeps to himself, but has made a few friends nonetheless. When Hannibal talks to her about it at dinner she smiles and says she likes them, they're "interesting, father". 

Hannibal has a half-nostalgic thought for Camille, who was much better at this than him, more maternal, of course, patient and tender - all in all, though, he thinks he isn't doing too badly, which is a small success. Abigail is polite and subdued, though sometimes insolent; but she never fails to clean the table and make her bed in the morning, and Hannibal is too proud of her for it to be an objective reaction to any achievement by a six-year-old child. He is still baffled by that. 

When the night falls she doesn't ask him about monsters under her bed and he doesn't comfort her; instead takes out the great book of mythology he keeps on her nightstand and reads to her about Innana and her descent to the Netherworld. As he reads, Abigail watches him quietly, her eyes dark and wide, mouthing along to the parts she knows really well; when she eventually falls asleep Hannibal closes the book silently, sets it back on the nightstand and kisses her forehead. 

Back downstairs, he pours himself a glass of bourbon and puts on Vivaldi, turning the volume low enough not to disturb Abigail's sleep. Love, he wonders to himself, might be a many-splendored thing, but it is a thing he does not understand. For once, he resolves to gives himself over to the feeling. 

 

(7)

"Father!" Abigail screeches from the doorway. 

Hannibal winces. "Lower, darling." She runs to the living-room, her face lit up. Hannibal smiles back at her almost reflexively; she's not often that extroverted. "What is it?"

She settles on his knee, pushing her hair behind her ears with both hands. "I got chosen for the spelling bee," she says proudly. 

If there were anyone else around, Hannibal would be embarrassed to beam so largely. "I knew you would," he says, trying to sound grave. (But there was Annie Devereaux who looked like she might steal Abigail's place for a moment; they were both worried.)

"Do you think I'll win?" she asks earnestly, pouting a little. 

Hannibal taps a finger to her knee. "Of course you will. Now go eat something, there's chocolate on the kitchen table."

She bounds off his knee, still smiling - his gaze follows her as she runs to the kitchen, her ponytail bouncing on her back. "No running," he calls softly after her, already forgiving her childish ardor.

 

(9)

This was a hard hunt, one that wouldn't have happened back in Europe - where he had to draw a gun, where the victim screamed, where everything was vulgar and didn't go according to plan. Hannibal hates those times, even though he takes a secret pleasure in them: the thought that he, for once, is the one on the brink of death, humanity fighting back and attempting to quash its tormentor. He wins, of course, he always wins eventually, but he likes that second on the edge, getting out of it with scars, knees and legs bleeding, forced to put his forehead down on the ground for a second to breathe. 

He comes home later than usual, and Abigail is in the living-room, reading _Anna Karenina_ with her legs folded under her on the couch, clearly exhausted. She jumps up when she sees him crossing the door, exclaims, "Father!"

He closes his arms around her, breathes her in. She took a shower, she smells like lavender with underneath the leftovers from yesterday's dinner, sautéd duck breast with parsley and _tian_. She's a good girl. "I'm fine, darling," he says softly, but falls to his knees all the same, weak, blood blooming over his pocket square.

She takes a step back, regards him for a short second - it seems to him that she's considering whether or not to let him die, but of course it's not that - and runs off. She returns soon enough with the first help kit and the telephone. "Should I call the police?" she says, biting down on her bottom lip. 

He brushes a bloody hand to her cheek, leaving a damp trace after him. "No," he whispers, "I'm fine, I'm alright. Why don't you hand me that needle, sweetheart? Yes, good."

She watches as he stitches himself up, handing him what he asks for; settles a cushion under his knee and another under his head, her fingers brushing his temple ever so slightly. It takes a moment for him to realize that she's humming under her breath, a lullaby Camille used to sing to her when she was still a baby, " _endormez-moi cette enfant, jusqu'à l'âge de quinze ans -_ "

He sings with her and it carries him through the pain as she assists him like a perfect little soldier, her knees crossed almost daintily. When he's finished he makes her bring him a basin of warm water and helps her wash her hands. He tickles her - she laughs, her hands dripping with bubbly soap, says, "I love you, father," breathless as though she knew and this was a promise that she would always understand. 

 

(11)

Abigail changes when she gets into the big school. Overnight, Hannibal finds her brushing her hair for hours, talking about boys in a distant, hungry voice, applying lipstick and rounding a small clique of thin-lipped, cruel girls of which she is not the overt leader but the unspoken one. She still talks to him, answers every question he asks and does her homework dutifully, but it doesn't keep Hannibal from worrying. He steers her into an infatuation for a dark but harmless boy, softly arrogant; her girlfriends don't know it but they answer to him. He watches like a hawk, intent on not disturbing the show. 

Until one morning, when she trots down the stairs with harsh red lipstick, pantyhose showing under a slinky back top which Hannibal most certainly didn't buy her. "Abigail," he stops her before she gets to the door. 

She sticks her lower lip out, defensive, her hands going rigid along her sides. "What?"

"You can't go out like that." He doesn't have to try very hard to make it sound like something self-evident; he's slightly baffled, for once, unsure of who his daughter is.

She blinks. She looks like something is seething inside of her, that has nothing to do with how she's dressed, a whirlwind of emotions Hannibal can't quite comprehend. "Why not?"

He has to think before he answers. _It's not proper_ would probably send her into a tailspin - and besides, it would be hypocritical, given how improper he has been on occasion. "It's vulgar. You don't want to look vulgar, do you? Come here," he stands up and takes her hand, which she gives, limp, doesn't struggle, "look at you." He makes her stand in front of the clock, where a long mirror covers the door. "It's not you."

The sight of herself seems to calm her slightly, or maybe it's his hands on her shoulders, large and steady. She breathes in, shaky like a sniffle. "You're right," she says eventually, her voice small.

He gives an approbative hum: Abigail goes back up to change and Hannibal drives her to school, even goes inside to explain why she's late, then leaves, though not before kissing Abigail's cheek as he gives her her lunch. When she comes home that afternoon, she's cheery and bright, all unhappiness forgotten. They do not speak of the incident again.

 

(13)

If there is one thing Hannibal regrets leaving Europe for (he does like people here - they crunch under the teeth, red and resistant), it's the education system. He wouldn't have said no to sending Abigail to Eton or Henri IV, where she would at least have received a proper education. As it is, he tries to teach her everything she doesn't get at school himself: he sits her down and painstakingly explains the rules of chess, go and shatranj; makes her read the necessary Russians, with a dash of Balzac and contemporary African and Latin-American literature; signs her up to a music school in their neighborhood, where he leaves her the choice of her instruments. The philosophy and history books are well within her reach in the dining room, sitting on the lower shelves - he takes her to the theater, the opera and the ballet, the latter of which she enjoys tremendously. 

She never complains, seems to like it, even; she plays the piano with a remarkable dexterity, a skill which she no doubt inherited from her mother. Though he likes music, Hannibal has a terrible ear - but he makes up for it in nose and taste, and can recognize every perfume, ingredient or burgeoning illness, a much-lauded party trick. Abigail hosts with him from time to time, but on weeknights she stays in her room, easily bored in the company of too many guests. When that is the case, Hannibal comes up to her room to say goodnight at ten and invariably finds her curled up on the ledge under her window, her knees drawn to her chest and her nose plunged into a book, her hair slipping from its tie. She's starting to look more and more like her mother, except for a few features, a flatter, wider mouth, a nose less aquiline and a generally more balanced temper. 

He slips into the room, rousing her - she startles, clamps a hand over her breast and laughs, a little breathlessly. "Oh, it's you."

He nods, the noise from downstairs filtering in for a few moments, glasses clinking and laughs ringing, until he closes the door. "It's me. Get into bed, sweetheart."

She obeys, dutifully marks her page and slips under the blankets, laying her head on the pillow. He smoothes her forehead with his hand. She doesn't mind. " _Usted es la hija del mar_ ," he starts, " _primer primo del orégano_..."

And she takes it in stride, her voice already sleepy, soft like lovingly-spun wool, " _El nadador, su cuerpo es puro como el agua -_ "

They trade lines back and forth, cradled by the slow, round rhythm of Spanish in their throats. She smiles up at him, fuzzy, and when he says the last line - " _\- los vehículos, alga marina, hierbas: la espuma de sus sueños_ ," her eyes are closed, she's sleeping. 

 

(14)

He knows she wants to ask him a question. In fact, he's been waiting for it. She's holding a _koma_ , rolling it between her fingers but not making her move even though it's an obvious one, one she knows about because he taught her. 

"Father," she asks eventually, setting the _koma_ on the board where he expected her to, "do you believe in God?"

He reclines in his chair. "There is no short answer, sweetheart," he says slowly, carefully. "It's complicated. I do, yes, in some fashion, but I don't find it necessary to abide by his rules, if you will."

Abigail nods slowly, frowns, her eyes considering. "What about Satan, then? Lucifer?"

Hannibal sighs softly. "I believe in him just like I believe in Innana and Amaterasu and Asclepios and Kokopelli. They're divinities invented by humans, and that makes them real, but thinking that they decide our lives is the easy way out. We have to make our lives for ourselves - letting some god, any god, take care of it for you is the lazy route, and it's dangerous." He takes her hand over the table, covering her fingers with his. "What about you, what do you think?"

She looks over at him, her eyes startlingly clear. "I don't think evil would exist if there was a benevolent god looking over us," he says calmly, and it sends a thrill through him, seeing her so deep, thoughtful and _smart_ , already aware of evil. 

He cocks his head, smiling a little. "Maybe," he says, his words a caress. 

After a few beats of silence, they resume playing. Hannibal doesn't let her win - he never does - but she threatens to take over several times and he encourages her, urges her to _think_. Eventually he wins and she's gracious about it, laughs and says she'll learn from her mistakes. He offers to make tea, she asks for mate. As he stands up, resting his hands on his knees, he sees her worrying her lip. 

"Was there something else, love?" he asks gently. 

"I was just wondering..." she draws her legs up, folding them under her on the chair. "Does that mean you believe in heaven and hell, then? There's a version of them in pretty much every mythology, after all."

The question draws a smile out of him. He stands up, ruffles her hair. "I do," he says. 

She nestles her head into his palm. "Where do you think you'll go?" she asks, her voice small.

Their eyes lock. Does she know? She might. She's a smart girl, and he's never really tried to hide it from her. "I have to die first," he says, his fingers tracing the shell of her ear. "Then we'll see."

She seems satisfied enough with his answer - she leans back against the cushions and asks for chestnut honey with her tea.

 

(16)

Abigail's boyfriend's name is Luke. He's blond, wholesome and perfectly uninteresting, and Hannibal is reasonably sure that the dinner is smarter than him. His mother is one of Hannibal's patients, an angry, anxious woman whose husband beats from time to time, even though "we don't call it that". 

"This is delicious, Mr Lecter," he says, his voice shaky.

Hannibal holds back the sharp _Doctor _and gives him a polite nod. He glances at Abigail who doesn't look back, bent over her food. He's slightly disappointed in her, thought she would be smarter in her choice of lovers. Being young isn't an excuse for poor taste.__

Once the dinner finished and Luke led to the door with a few obligatory threats, they go back to the dining room. Abigail starts silently clearing away the plates.

"Is this serious?" Hannibal asks after a while. It isn't the best thing to ask, but he isn't sure what else he could say that wouldn't be offensive and guarantee her to leave the room in a huff. 

Abigail looks at him, frowning a little. She's beautiful, and it's not just fatherly pride; Hannibal knows she's being pursued by a number of boys. So why choose this one? He startles when she answers, "Of course not," matter-of-fact.

"Ah," Hannibal says. 

Abigail laughs at him, her head tipped back, throat bared - he lets her and even smiles when she bounds over and kisses his cheek, her eyes sparkling and insolent. "Don't worry, father," she says with a grin, "I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you can," Hannibal says after a beat, grabbing a book and settling in the couch. 

Still, he makes sure Luke and his family move to Shreveport within the week and throws a dinner for Abigail's birthday, during which he introduces her to Oscar Kaplan, son of Richard and the youngest winner of the nobel prize in Chemistry. She takes to him like a fish to water, as he knew she would, and doesn't cry for either for them, which is really all Hannibal can ask for. 

 

(17)

Hannibal starts working with the FBI on occasion, having recently published a paper on the relation between sociopathy and psychopathy in a fit of self-indulgent _hubris_. Abigail is thrilled and asks for anecdotes; the week after, she announces her intention to take psychology with a minor in criminal justice. In celebration, Hannibal offers her a 1985 edition of Colette's _Le Pur et l'Impur_ and makes lamb for dinner, soft and melting on the tongue.

He watches her over the dinner table, his child, a long, willowy girl of seventeen, who looks eerily like her mother but is bolder, quieter and less gracious. Even now, he's surprised to find that he loves her, but he does, he does. It's a silent, manipulative love, probably the only kind he's capable of: for her he would without flinching kill, rape and murder; would go to the ends of the earth for her to remain this perfect, composed teenager who so rarely strays off the path he beat for her. 

"What is it, father?" she asks, catching his contemplative look. He watches as she flattens her tongue over the meat, humming softly when she tastes the warm blood. 

"Nothing, sweetheart, I'm fine. What were you saying?"

Her eyes twinkle. "Will you bring me with you next time you consult for the FBI?"

Hannibal thinks about the corpses, horribly scarred, the maimed limbs and the pagan symbols carved into skin. He thinks about Jack Crawford and Beverly Katz and the different ways they regard death, and he thinks about the cases, the cold, stubborn divide between right and wrong. He frowns softly, takes a sip of wine. "I'll consider it," he says.

Abigail nods, _that's enough for me_ , and starts talking excitedly about applying to Princeton - "I've heard their human sciences department is the best," she enthuses, then goes on to talk about the campus; Hannibal closes his eyes, briefly, and lets his worries suffuse in the soft drone of his daughter's voice. 

 

(18)

Garrett Jacob Hobbs is the first murderer Hannibal stops with Will Graham. It's been a while since he has felt that elated outside of his nightly peregrinations, but Will is a fascinating man, scared and defiant and perfectly dysfunctional. Hannibal takes to him instantly, with a ferocity that surprises him more than anyone else. 

But Hobbs has a daughter, which he may have been training to be his successor, and he takes her with him in death, slashing her throat cleanly, his knife a thunderbolt of silver in the chaos. Hannibal experiences slight pity for the daughter, whose resemblance with Abigail is glaring, that her father was such a poor killer. When he kills Abigail it will be an act of grace, not desperation, like tucking her into bed all those years and watching her fall asleep; he will place a kiss on her brow and eat her hands first, because he loves her so much, and she will be a constellation, will live forever, next to only him in immortality. He will make a divinity out of her, and that only when he himself knows for sure that death is upon him. He will do right by her. She shouldn't die like her mother, a miserable death. 

For the moment, though, he promises to take her to the FBI and introduce her to Beverly, who is her new idol; he starts seducing Will in his slow, certain way and watches as the effects of his pursuit grow in hard lines on the man's face, swears to himself that he will make him have the best nightmares of his existence. 

He invites him back to his house for dinner once after a long and fruitless day, and is almost surprised when Will agrees. "You know what," he says, tilting his head in that way he has, "yeah, I would."

"Briliant," says Hannibal slowly, hiding a grin much too big for his mouth. 

It's Abigail who opens the door when they get to the house, an apron tied around her waist, her mouth red like a cherry. Oh, his perfect daughter. "Abigail, this is Will," Hannibal says, "Will helps the FBI, like me. Will, this is my daughter Abigail."

He watches Will's eyes grow round and smiles; Abigail shares his amusement, reaches a hand. " _Enchantée_ , Mister Graham," she says with a sweet smile. "Please, do come in. Dinner is almost ready."


End file.
